


A Study in Wizardry

by dozmuffinxc



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:33:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson can't believe his luck at being accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He knew to expect strange, bizarre things: magic spells, potions, and flying centaurs. What he didn't expect to find was Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Platform 9 3/4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson arrives on Platform 9 3/4 full of wonder at this new world he's fallen into when one particular wizarding family catches his eye.

Billowing clouds of steam poured from the engine of the massive, scarlet train docked at the impossible platform. Impossible because there was no such platform as “9 ¾,” and if there was, one certainly wouldn’t get to it by walking through a solid brick wall. Nevertheless, here he was, and John Watson wouldn’t trade this marvelous impossibility for all the world.

If he believed in that sort of thing, John would say that he had died and gone to heaven, but if there was anything the last few years had taught him, it was that God was a delightful delusion. Now, magic! Magic, he could believe in. The proof was right in front of him; it was packed away carefully in his school trunk in the form of incredible books and ingredients for potions he was itching to try his hand at; it was stashed in the pocket of his trousers, a masterpiece of carved wood with a – wonder of wonders – dragon heartstring.

He had arrived at the station on his own hours before departure time. He had secretly worried that it would all be one great mistake, and even after he encountered his first family of wizards who politely explained the location of the Hogwarts Express, he was terrified that someone would tell him that his acceptance letter had been a fake and that he didn’t belong. Belonging was something that mattered very much to John Watson, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

The conductor had just begun to allow students onto the train, but John was in no hurry to board. No sense joining the crush of bodies pouring into cramped compartments just yet, not when he could stay on the platform for a few minutes more and watch the people milling around him. They were so different, so strange, so wonderful. It was enough, for the moment, just to _observe_.

One family in particular drew John’s attention, and at first, he couldn’t imagine why. They were no more exotic than the other families gathered to say their adieus; if anything, their dress was more subdued and their manners quieter than the more flamboyant, raucous farewell parties dotting the platform. There was a woman – undoubtedly the mother – dressed in a sharply-cut navy dress suit standing next to a man in plaid trousers with a fleecy cardigan despite the warmth of the day. A few feet away, tapping the toe of his shiny black shoes impatiently, was a paunchy boy at least four years John’s senior already in his school robes with a glinting pin stuck to the lapel. And there, flanked by his parents and looking thoroughly uncomfortable and put out, was a boy of about John’s age with dark, curly hair and eyes that looked as if they were three colors at once.

Eyes that were staring right back at him.

John felt himself flushing with embarrassment. He wasn’t a shy boy and he had become quite good at staring down even the most unsavory of people, but there was something in the intensity of the other boy’s gaze that made John feel positively naked.

The Hogwarts Express gave a shrill whistle and the students who hadn’t boarded already began to make their way onboard, dragging their trunks and animal cages behind them. John was distracted for a moment by a girl who seemed to have a caged tarantula lashed to the top of her luggage; by the time he looked back to see whether the odd boy was still watching him, he and his whole family had disappeared in the throng. Hoisting his rucksack onto his back (John was one of the few children present whose things were not packed nicely into wood or leather trunks), John pushed his way through the crowd and stepped up onto the train.

He stood frozen in the corridor for a moment as the sheer _realness_ of his surroundings assaulted him. All around him were kids just like him with actual magical powers – and they were all on their way to a school for wizardry! 

“Incredible,” he breathed, a chill running down his spine.

“Wotcher,” an older boy with peculiar, silvering hair muttered amiably as he attempted to shuffle past John. The other boy paused for a moment to give John a lopsided smile.

“First time?”

“Yeah,” John laughed. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’re not alone, mate,” the other boy responded kindly. “Lots of first years here.”

Before John could ask the boy where he ought to sit, a chorus of voices poured out of a nearby compartment and the older boy turned to look where a group of students was waving at him.

“Oy, Anderson! That’s my seat,” he yelled good-naturedly, and with a parting nod to John, he disappeared behind the sliding door.

John stumbled as the train began to move along the tracks. There were a handful of students crowded against the windows, waving tearfully at their family on the platform as the train pulled away, but John had no desire to join them. There was no one on the other side of the glass to wave goodbye to, and there was no one in London worth missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm playing around with everyone's ages, but I wanted Sherlock and John in the same year. Sorry!


	2. The Hogwarts Express

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself in a train compartment with a strange (and wonderful) new companion.

By the time John had set himself to the task of finding a vacant seat, all the compartments were full. A few that he peeked into had an open seat, but just when he thought about nudging in and asking whether he might take it, the students within would laugh at some joke or roll their eyes over someone’s tale of summer mishaps and John would move along. It seemed everyone either knew each other or had some family connection, and rather than face the awkward questions that he knew would be directed at him, John pressed on.

He had almost reached the back of the train before he found a compartment that seemed, blessedly, empty. Throwing the door open, John launched himself inside and threw his bag onto an overhead rack before sinking into a plush seat. It wasn’t until the other boy spoke that John realized he was not, in fact, alone.

“I’ve been told knocking before entering is polite.”

“Blimey,” John gasped, his hand reaching for the wand in his pocket. Stammering out an apology, he stood and began to reach for his bag.

“No, it’s fine,” the other boy said. “I don’t mind.”

As he eased back into his seat, John realized with a start that the other boy was the same one who had stared him down on Platform 9 ¾. That same shrewd, multi-colored gaze was fixed on him again and John was uncomfortably aware that there was no one else around to deflect his embarrassment. Finally, desperate to break the silence, John said the first thing that came to his mind.

“My name’s John.”

“I know,” the other boy replied.

Taken aback, John gaped at the boy and managed to mumble an almost-incoherent “huh?”

“Your bag. ‘J. Watson.’ Of course, J could stand for any number of things, but you’re not from a wizarding family, so I doubt you were saddled with some ridiculous moniker like Jarleth or Jocunda . And John is statistically more likely than Jason or Jack. So.”

John realized approximately five seconds after the boy had finished talking that his own mouth was hanging open in a shockingly unattractive way. In an attempt to recover his dignity, John coughed and eyed the boy with curious speculation.

“You… you said I’m not from a wizarding family.”

“You’re not.”

“I know I’m not. But how did _you_ know?”

The boy sighed as though the effort of answering was more than he could stand, but there was something about the subtle shift in his posture and the glint in the boy’s peculiar eyes that made John think that he enjoyed being asked. 

“Your clothes are a dead giveaway. Shamefully easy, really. They’re authentic, bought directly from a Muggle shop. I can still see the plastic tag where you ripped off the price. Most wizards who even attempt to blend in with their non-magical counterparts fabricate their outfits from preexisting clothing. You’ve also got two pound coins in your pocket. Some wizards carry Muggle money, sure, but they also carry their Knuts and Galleons. You have none.”

John was gobsmacked. “A-anything else?”

The boy continued as though there had been no interruption.

“There’s your wand. You keep fingering it when you’re nervous; you’ve probably not had it more than a week. Thus, you’re not used to it, probably didn’t grow up around wands. And the frankly appalling fact that you have your wand stowed away in the back pocket of your trousers. Basic wizarding safety guidelines dictate there are few worse places to keep your wand.”

Just as abruptly as he had begun, the boy stopped, his eyes carefully gauging John’s reaction from across the train car.

“That. Was. Amazing,” John breathed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You really think so?” The boy seemed surprised, as though appreciation was the last reaction he had expected.

“Of course it was. Brilliant! How on _Earth_ did you figure all that out? Is it magic?”

“Magic? Dull. I observed. Fairly basic reasoning, really. Anyone could do it except most people are too thick.”

If John was supposed to be insulted, he didn’t show it. Instead, he leaned back in his seat with a slightly dazed expression on his face.

“Are all wizards like you,” John asked at last, half-afraid of what the answer would be. He, John Watson, could never read a person like that; if that was the sort of thing he had to look forward to at Hogwarts, he might as well leap off the train right now.

“Hardly,” the boy replied darkly, glaring out the window at the blur of trees rushing past.

It struck John rather suddenly that this amazing, intelligent boy who had just read his history in the pattern of his clothes was exceptionally unhappy. How that could be when he clearly came from a decent, wizarding family where things like magic and owl post were everyday occurrences? But whatever the reason, it wasn’t pride that smoldered in the other boy’s eyes now; it was resentment. He had barely looked at John since he blustered into the train car, and he was clearly making a concerted effort to avoid his gaze now. Maybe… maybe he didn’t like being different?

Getting to his feet, John took a step towards the other boy and extended his hand. For a moment, John could have sworn he saw the other boy flinch. 

“Nice to meet you,” John said, making an effort to meet the boy’s startling gaze.

The boy hesitated, the dark fringe of his curls shading his face and hiding his expression for the briefest of moments. Then, he looked up and shocked John with a wide, if tight-lipped, smile.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names Sherlock throws out as improbable for John, Jarleth and Jocunda, were the names of real wizards!
> 
> According to the HP Lexicon...
> 
> Hobart, Jarleth (fl. 1500s) Wizard who accidentally invented the Levitation Charm in 1544 while trying to create a spell to allow him to fly. He made quite a fool of himself trying to show off his new-found "flying ability" to his neighbors and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot (BoS).
> 
> Sykes, Jocunda (b. 1915) Famously became the first witch or wizard to fly across the Atlantic Ocean on a broomstick, in 1935. She rode an Oakshaft 79 (QA9).


	3. Freak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get to know each other and a certain unsavory Slytherin visits their train compartment.

John and Sherlock spent the next two hours pouring over Sherlock’s textbooks. John had never been a great lover of books (a novel now and then, sure, but not school books), but everything about these mysterious tomes was new and fascinating and he found he simply couldn’t get enough. 

Neither, it seemed, could Sherlock: his copies of “A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration” and “Magical Drafts and Potions” were clearly new, but they were already covered in scribbled, marginal notes, dozens of pages dog-eared for later. John was particularly impressed by Sherlock’s copy of “The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection” which had been carefully annotated with additional sheets of parchment stuffed between the pages covered in notes and complex diagrams. When John asked him about it, Sherlock merely shrugged and said, “Could be useful.”

As a Muggleborn with no previous connection to the wizarding world, John’s school supplies had been acquired for him by proxy. A school liaison had taken his measurements and ordered his robes (used), and his textbooks and supplies had been ordered by post from their respective warehouses and sent ahead to Hogwarts. The only thing he had been allowed to get himself was his wand; he had insisted on that as soon as he learned that such things existed, and it had been the proudest – and strangest – moment of his life to date when the oak shaft with its core of unicorn tail hair had hummed to life in his hand and burst forth in a shower of silver stars.

Sherlock’s wand, it turned out, was made of birch and contained a core of dragon heartstrings which Sherlock eagerly explained was the most powerful of the magical cores. When John jokingly dared Sherlock to “prove it,” he was taken aback by the readiness with which Sherlock executed a series of delicate wrist movements and produced, with a murmured incantation, a troop of semi-translucent bees that buzzed merrily around their heads before vanishing in puffs of golden smoke.

“Incredible,” John breathed.

“It’s absolutely useless, of course,” Sherlock had muttered, a faint blush tinting his pale cheeks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” John grinned. “Could be pretty useful if you wanted to… I don’t know… charm some real bees into a hive?”

This idea seemed to please Sherlock who, as he tucked his wand carefully away in the sleeve of his school robes, could barely suppress a smile.

They sat in silence for a while, John contemplating the loamy fields beyond the train windows while Sherlock sat engrossed in a copy of some thick tome bound in cracked, black leather. They were shaken from their respective reveries by the arrival of the food trolley sometime around noon. Although John was eager to see what sort of treats he might find on board a wizard’s train, he was keenly aware of the lack of coins in his pocket. Aside from those two pound coins Sherlock had so accurately identified, John didn’t have a single Knut, Sickle, or Galleon to his name.

As the trolley witch rolled her cart past their compartment, John felt Sherlock’s eyes on him and he shrugged in what he hoped was a convincing show of nonchalance. To John’s surprise, Sherlock – whose thin frame made it quite clear that he was not one to partake in snacks if, in fact, he ate at all – rose from his seat and strode out into the hall.

As Sherlock slipped out, another student slipped in. She was tall and dark-skinned, her hair a mass of black curls tucked back behind an emerald green band. She introduced herself as “Donovan, Sally Donovan,” and she plonked herself down in the seat across from John without so much as a “by your leave.”

“So,” she said, a slight sneer playing at her lips, “I see you’ve met the freak.”

“Wh—excuse me??” John sputtered, his hand instinctively gravitating towards the wand in his back pocket.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she continued, nonplussed. “You should know he’s a nutter. Absolutely bonkers. I grew up with him, I should know: him and his brother, they both think they’re so clever. The whole Holmes family is so superior, and Sherlock’s the worst, always mucking about with advanced magic. He almost got a kid on our street killed once! It’s only a matter of time…”

“Until what,” John asked through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing.

“Until he really does kill someone.”

“And why would he do that?”

“Because he likes it. All that Dark magic, he thinks it’s cool, and if you ask me—“

“But no one is,” John spat, “So why don’t you shove off, _Donovan_ , and mind your own bloody business?”

Sally’s eyebrow twitched at the venom in John’s tone, but her smile did not waver.

“He your mate now, is he?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Yeah,” John replied, startling himself with how certain he sounded. “Yeah, he is.”

A movement in the doorway made John look up. Sherlock stood on the threshold holding a huge pile of wrapped candies and pastries, and although he spoke to Sally, his eyes were fixed on John.

“Sally,” Sherlock said, his tone sardonic, “always a pleasure.”

“Freak,” she replied, flipping her hair over her right shoulder. “I was just leaving.”

“Off to snog Anderson in the boiler room again? What _would_ your dear mummy say.”

John was pleased to see the violent flush of pink creep up Sally’s cheeks at this remark. As she pushed past Sherlock, she threw a final glance back to John and chuckled darkly.

“Enjoy your little pet,” she spat, ramming her shoulder into Sherlock’s side as she spun around the corner and disappeared down the hall.

Sherlock eased back into the compartment slowly, awkwardly settling himself and his cache of sweets into his empty seat. There was silence in the train car as both boys waited for the other to speak first. It was John who broke the tension.

“Are you planning on eating all of those by yourself?”

A weight seemed to lift from Sherlock’s shoulders as he realized that John’s opinion of him hadn’t, for the time being, been affected by Sally Donovan’s taint. A smile brightened his face as he proceeded to toss package after package across the train car to John, explaining in excruciating detail the charms used to make the leaping chocolate frogs and the magically-enhanced chemical make-up of the pepper imps that caused the consumer to appear to breath fire.

Neither boy could remember the last time they had had so much fun.


	4. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hogwarts Express pulls in at Hogmeade Station and John catches his first sight of Hogwarts castle.

The hours passed quickly, and it felt like only a short while before the Hogwarts Express was slowing down to an easy stop in Hogsmeade Station. John had completely forgotten about his school robes in the excitement of learning more about the wizarding world from his strange, new friend, and in his haste, he forgot all sense of modesty. His trainers went flying over his shoulder and hit the wall of the compartment with a dull _thwack_ and he had his shirt half-pulled over his head before he remembered Sherlock. 

John flushed a lurid shade of pink, muttering apologies, but Sherlock hadn’t even looked up from his book. “I don’t mind,” was all he said, his eyes a flash of aqua and emerald as he spared a split-second’s look at John over the top of the book.

As the train whistled shrilly over his head, John dug frantically through his bag and pulled out the second-hand black robes that were to be his regular school uniform. Slipping out of his trousers as quickly and discreetly as possible, John tugged the dense material over his head and shimmied his arms into the voluminous sleeves. 

The robes had been purchased without the benefit of his presence; his measurements, it seemed, had not been adequate, and the robes hung off his frame in a way that made him look frumpy. John groaned, dreading the patronizing looks of his classmates. Flashes of memory barraged him: images of leering boys and girls in his old public schools, eyeing him askance as he slouched in on the first day in his consignment shop cast-offs. Some things never changed.

“Turn around.”

Sherlock’s voice jarred John out of his gloomy thoughts. It took repeating his request before John processed the other boy’s words and he turned to come face-to-face with Sherlock’s wand. 

“What are you doing?!” John sputtered, resisting the urge to back against the wall.

“Trust me,” Sherlock said, rolling his shoulders back and gesturing for John to stand still.

John closed his eyes and braced himself for whatever Sherlock planned to do. It didn’t occur to him to protest, but he was more than a little apprehensive as the sound of Sherlock’s murmured spell drifted across the room. The strange sensation of his robes tightening around him surprised John, and his eyes flew open to see Sherlock pacing around him, whispering incomprehensible words and trailing his wand in spirals and loops close to his side.

When Sherlock finally stepped back and pocketed his wand, John looked down at his robes in awe. Not only did the robes fit him more comfortably, but the fabric itself seemed to have improved in quality.

“Wow,” he breathed. “Thank you, Sherlock! Seriously, _thank you_. I can’t believe – how did you even know how to do all that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s hardly complex magic, just altering something already in existence. Not as hard as creating something new.” Nevertheless, he looked pleased with John’s praise, and he couldn’t hide a tilted smile as he bent down to collect his satchel.

Together, the two boys made their way out into the corridor and into the flood of students filing out onto the train platform. It was dark outside, and it took a moment for John’s eyes to adjust to the gloaming twilight. Farther down the platform, a huge, grizzled man at least twice the size of the largest adult John had ever seen stood waving his massive hands in a gesture that was surely meant to be welcoming but which looked more likely to flatten any passing student who happened to get in the way.

“Half-giant,” Sherlock muttered, his voice close to John’s ear. Even Sherlock couldn’t keep the tinge of awe from his voice.

The half-giant was herding the first years towards a small dock at the edge of what appeared to be a vast lake where a queue of boats was waiting, assumedly to spirit them away to the school. John walked as close to Sherlock as possible, resisting the urge to cling to the hem of the other boy’s sleeve, suddenly terrified to be separated from the one person he knew in the crowd of strangers. He needn’t have worried; they were both soon snuggly settled in with two other first years and together they sat, bobbing in the dark waters while the rest of the new students were sorted into their own vessels.

The silence in their boat quickly became awkward. All around them, John could hear the other first years babbling to each other about Houses and whether there would be a great feast waiting for them, but Sherlock seemed more than content to glare broodingly into the shifting shadows flitting across the calm waters of the lake, ignoring his companions entirely. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat and smiled at the other two occupants of their boat.

“Quite a night,” he said lamely, directing the comment to the petite blond girl perched on the edge of her seat as though she might fly out of it at any moment.

“Oh,” she said, giggling nervously, “yes, it is. Are you new, as well?” Realizing the redundancy of the question – they were, after all, in the midst of a flock of first-years – she giggled again and tugged anxiously at a loose thread on her robes.

“I’m John Watson, by the way,” John said warmly, extending his hand.

“Molly,” she replied, her smaller hand slipping into his, “Molly Hooper. Who’s your friend?”

“This is Sherlock,” John said when it became clear that Sherlock had no intention of making his own introductions. 

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock,” Molly said, a faint squeak accompanying her pronunciation of his name.

John never found out whether Sherlock would have deigned to answer, for at that very moment, their boat set out from the dock along with the dozen other little vessels, moving across the water without the aid of an engine or rudders of any kind. John knew he shouldn’t be surprised ( _magic school, magic boats_ ), but the shock made him cling to his seat unsteadily as he swayed with the sudden, rocking motion. The slight pressure of a hand at his back made him start; when he looked over at Sherlock, the pressure disappeared and the other boy continued staring straight ahead into the black curtain of night.

All at once, the moon came out from behind the clouds, the small army of boats turned the corner of a rocky precipice, and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry appeared out of the fog. _But this isn’t a school,_ John thought, his eyes wide as saucers. _It’s a castle_! Did castles really exist? This one did, and as the gabled towers rose out of the mist, curved stone walls speckled with shocks of light where windows must be, John’s heart thrashed against his ribcage with the force of a rogue jackhammer.

The castle grew closer and closer until it seemed the boats must crash into the side of the precipice on which it was perched; instead, the vessels drifted lazily through a hidden, shadowy underpass and slipped just as quickly out the other side. The light of a dozen torches blazed from a dock that was almost identical to the one they had left behind in Hogsmeade, and as each boat bumped gently against the pier, the half-giant (“Hagrid,” Molly whispered in John’s ear) lifted each child out and urged them up a winding stairway set into the side of the hill.

“Come on, you lot,” Hagrid bellowed genially as he led them along a spiraling path to the castle. “Don’ wanna be late for your first feast!”

John’s stomach rumbled loudly in response, eliciting a giggle from Molly who had fallen into line behind him and, John was almost certain, a chuckle from Sherlock who had had to slow his long-legged, confident gait to accommodate John’s slower, hesitant pace.

When at last the narrow path opened onto a wide, sprawling lawn, the first years paused to catch a collective breath before being ushered impatiently by an increasingly-harried Hagrid up the front steps of the castle. Huge, ornate double doors opened of their own volition onto a high-ceilinged hall, and a woman strode briskly across the flagstone floor to meet them. She was dressed head-to-toe in a green tartan robe, a tall, pointed hat situated neatly atop a coiled black braid, square spectacles perched regally on the bridge of her nose.

“My name is Professor McGonagall. Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”


	5. The Sorting Hat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, if you're very lucky, the Sorting Hat will let you choose your House.

As Professor McGonagall led the first years into the Great Hall and up the middle aisle, Sherlock found, to his dismay, that he was really quite nervous. That was ridiculous, of course; years spent under the critical eye of his older brother had more than prepared him for the disapproval of his classmates. Perhaps Sally Donovan’s snark on the train had affected him after all. It wasn’t as though her insults were new to Sherlock or even particularly clever, but he couldn’t deny that he regretted John Watson’s having been privy to them.

To calm his racing mind, Sherlock began making deductions. As a coping mechanism, pointing out the flaws in others was really quite soothing, and he could feel his heartbeat slowing into a more regular rhythm as his eyes flitted over the robe-clad forms of the young boys and girls already seated.

Of a slouching Slytherin seated at the far end of the hall, Sherlock thought, _Father’s a Squib, mother’s Muggle born. Didn’t grow up in a magical household, but he likes to pretend he has a grand magical lineage. His girlfriend doesn’t know; she’s going to break it off with him when she finds out._

 _Particularly good at combative charms,_ he thought after a half-second’s glance at a diminutive Gryffindor to his left. _Inherited her brothers’ penchant for fist fighting, but she’d rather engage in wizarding duels. She’s won the last five – no, six._

He was just mustering up a railing diatribe against a chubby Ravenclaw when Professor McGonagall raised a hand to bring the first years to a halt. Most of the other professors were eyeing the new students with curiosity, peering down at them in their neat line from their gilded chairs on the dais at the top of the hall. 

A cursory glance down the row of his future instructors proved disappointing; the only teachers who seemed remotely interesting were the keen-eyed Professor McGonagall ( _a disciplinarian but exceptional at her craft_ ) and a sneering, dark-haired man with a hooked nose and sallow skin who seemed intent on boring a hole in the table with the heat of his eyes. The latter was the resident Potions Master judging by the stains on his fingers and the subtle, silver ring on his left hand; only the most qualified Masters were allowed to wear that ring, and if the color and shape of the stains were any indication, he was used to working with rare and volatile ingredients. _Interesting._

Professor McGonagall was holding a hat in her hands, a grubby, worn specimen in faded shades of black that was, to Sherlock’s calculations, at least nine centuries old, probably a full thousand plus. Although it had been out of style for at least half that time, it showed signs of constant wear as though it was regularly dragged off the shelf and stuffed on countless heads of various shapes and sizes.

Of course, Sherlock hardly needed conjecture to know what this was. The Sorting Hat, previously owned by Hogwarts co-founder Godric Gryffindor, was one of the most famous magical artifacts in British wizarding history. There had always been an air of secrecy around the Hat; its function in the sorting of students was ambiguous, kept vague – to Sherlock’s reckoning – in order to terrorize first years with nightmares of fighting off trolls to prove their Gryffindor bravado. 

Sherlock was not fooled. Although Mycroft had smugly refused to reveal the sorting process to his little brother, it was obvious that the headmaster would never put a bunch of eleven-year-olds in danger on their first night in the castle. No: it was far more likely that the hat had been bewitched to choose their houses based on personality traits. Hardly a terrifying prospect.

Professor McGonagall sat the hat on a rickety, three-legged stool just in front of the professor’s dais. The students to the right and left of Sherlock were whispering, wondering aloud about whether they would have to duel the hat ( _ridiculous_ ) or whether the sorting process would be painful ( _idiots_ ). 

He was just about to remark on their stupidity when a wide rip along the brim of the hat opened up and a voice began to sing. Even Sherlock’s jaw dropped, but the nature of the hat’s song was lost on him when the gasp of a boy to his left caught his attention.

“How’s it doin’ that?” the boy hissed, tugging frantically on the sleeve of the gangly, freckled girl next to him.

“Basic animation charm, most likely,” Sherlock replied, although the boy had not been talking to him. “Bewitched to appear alive, but the charm’s quite simple for anyone with advanced Charms skills.”

“ _Shut up,_ ” a voice hissed from the vicinity of the Slytherin table. Sherlock was pretty sure it was Sally Donovan, but her face was hidden and he certainly wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of turning to look.

As the hat’s song drew to a close, Professor McGonagall unrolled a roll of parchment and called the first student forward. Sherlock watched with amusement as the boy stumbled nervously up to the stool and sat with eyes as wide as saucers when McGonagall lowered the hat on his head. The hat settled around the boy’s ears and for a few moments, nothing at all happened. After a full minute of silence, the brim stretched and the voice cried out, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

This continued through thirteen more first years before Professor McGonagall finally called “Holmes, Sherlock!” Sherlock was surprised to find that his heart rate increased the closer he came to the Sorting Hat’s stool. There was no reason to be nervous, he knew, but as he perched himself on the edge of the stool and waited for the hat to be placed on his head, he felt a shudder run down his spine. 

As the brim of the hat was lowered down onto his head, Sherlock noticed a movement at the end of the line of first years: John Watson, yet to be sorted, was flashing him a subtle thumbs-up. Sherlock was too shaken to smile, but he managed a terse nod before he closed his eyes and shut out the sight of the Great Hall.

“Merlin’s beard,” a voice by his ear chortled, “another Holmes boy! Circe save Hogwarts if you’re anything like your brother.”

 _I am nothing like my brother_ , Sherlock thought vehemently, his brows knitting in consternation.

“No? Well, we’ll just see then.”

There was a full five seconds of silence before the hat spoke again.

“You’d make a smashing Ravenclaw, that’s for sure,” the hat mused. “I can’t remember the last time I saw a mind so complex!”

 _Ravenclaw?_ Sherlock could almost hear his own mental scoff. _Self-important twits who fancy themselves intelligent._

“You’re probably right,” the hat replied, amused. “We can’t have you bored. Hufflepuff is definitely out. You’re certainly clever, and I can see there’s nothing you wouldn’t do in the pursuit of your desires. Care to join your brother in Slytherin?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond. Was the Sorting Hat in the habit of giving first years their choice of houses?

“Certainly not,” the Hat grumbled. “But a brain like yours? One simply cannot be too careful. What to do with a little boy who is equal parts intelligent, cunning, brave to the point of recklessness, and dedicated to the pursuit of truth?”

Sherlock’s mind raced. _Gryffindor. Put me in Gryffindor._ John Watson would almost certainly be Sorted into Gryffindor… not that such a thought would sway him at all.

“A peculiar choice for a peculiar lad. All right, then, I suppose it has to be GRYFFINDOR!!”

Professor McGonagall removed the hat from Sherlock’s head as the Gryffindor table erupted in an enthusiastic round of applause. He felt rather than saw Mycroft’s skeptical stare follow him from across the room where the Slytherins sat beneath their green House banner. Rolling his shoulders back, Sherlock stood even straighter and stared straight ahead until he had found a vacant seat among his new House members. To his right, an older boy with oddly silvered hair clapped him on the back and introduced himself as Greg. Sherlock attempted what passed as a smile and tried not to flinch when Greg grabbed his hand and pumped it energetically.

John Watson was the last first year to be sorted, and the hat had barely brushed his head before yelling “GRYFFINDOR!” with gusto. Sherlock found himself joining in the applause from the Gryffindor table as John marched, beaming, across the Hall and came to sit on Sherlock’s other side. Greg reached across Sherlock to offer John his hand which, Sherlock noticed, the other boy did not hesitate to take.

As the Headmaster welcomed the students to the start-of-term feast, Sherlock felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned to find John smiling brightly at him.

“I was afraid I wouldn’t know anyone,” John whispered. “I’m glad we’re in the same House.”

To his surprise, Sherlock found himself responding without the slightest hesitation.

“Me, too.”


End file.
